Grief
The grief is always just around the corner. I can feel it, lurking.
People have been so kind to me; that has held me up. I still need to write about some of the wonderful ways people have been there for me.
For the past two days, I've managed to stay on a pretty even keel. That's my goal: nothing too extreme, don't dwell on thoughts that will push you into grief and panic, have my feet "go mechanical around," as Emily Dickinson put it, "on ground, or air, or ought"
The thing is, doing what my body wants to do -- collapse, sob, lie there as vacant as I can be -- doesn't help me, doesn't help Rosie. It surely won't show anyone any more clearly the certainty and clarity of my love for her. So instead, I try to keep my grief this cold thing lodged deep in the bottom of the lake. The rest, I let ripple across the surface.
But I feel like my mind is in a split screen. One side is me, going through the day, being functional and doing the things I need to do. The other one is me, still trapped in the moment when I realized that this immense being I loved with all my heart for more than half my life was going to die and there was nothing I could do about it.
I didn't cry at that moment. Noises came out of me and there were not noises I'd ever heard come out of me before. I could hear myself making them, but I wasn't crying.
And then I heard Shannon walk into the barn just after Rosie had stopped breathing and I had my head on her shoulder and my arms around her neck, and that's when I could feel myself start to cry. The primal moment of absolute grief had passed.
It returned at 5 that morning. I was crawling around my bed on my hands and knees, making little noises and feeling my skin burn, and then I was sobbing while my mother held me and my sister rubbed my back. And then the valium kicked in and I slept.
The moments after are less terrifying, because the other parts of my brain started functioning. But they are more complicated because I'm aware of myself and the people around me. I'm watching myself grieve and I'm watching myself function at the same time that I am still trapped in that moment of absolute panic and grief.
And I know that this respite is going to pass and it's going to hurt and I'm going to have to continue to do what I'm doing now: survive, find moments of grace, look at all the people who have reached out to help carry me through the parts I cannot survive on my own.
I know we all suffer losses, and they are all terrible. And I suspect I should lock this post because it shows the ugliness of my aching heart, but I see no reason to be ashamed. I loved Rosie for twenty-two years and now she's gone, and it hurts so absolutely, even as I muddle along through the rest of the days of my life.
People have been so kind to me; that has held me up. I still need to write about some of the wonderful ways people have been there for me.
For the past two days, I've managed to stay on a pretty even keel. That's my goal: nothing too extreme, don't dwell on thoughts that will push you into grief and panic, have my feet "go mechanical around," as Emily Dickinson put it, "on ground, or air, or ought"
The thing is, doing what my body wants to do -- collapse, sob, lie there as vacant as I can be -- doesn't help me, doesn't help Rosie. It surely won't show anyone any more clearly the certainty and clarity of my love for her. So instead, I try to keep my grief this cold thing lodged deep in the bottom of the lake. The rest, I let ripple across the surface.
But I feel like my mind is in a split screen. One side is me, going through the day, being functional and doing the things I need to do. The other one is me, still trapped in the moment when I realized that this immense being I loved with all my heart for more than half my life was going to die and there was nothing I could do about it.
I didn't cry at that moment. Noises came out of me and there were not noises I'd ever heard come out of me before. I could hear myself making them, but I wasn't crying.
And then I heard Shannon walk into the barn just after Rosie had stopped breathing and I had my head on her shoulder and my arms around her neck, and that's when I could feel myself start to cry. The primal moment of absolute grief had passed.
It returned at 5 that morning. I was crawling around my bed on my hands and knees, making little noises and feeling my skin burn, and then I was sobbing while my mother held me and my sister rubbed my back. And then the valium kicked in and I slept.
The moments after are less terrifying, because the other parts of my brain started functioning. But they are more complicated because I'm aware of myself and the people around me. I'm watching myself grieve and I'm watching myself function at the same time that I am still trapped in that moment of absolute panic and grief.
And I know that this respite is going to pass and it's going to hurt and I'm going to have to continue to do what I'm doing now: survive, find moments of grace, look at all the people who have reached out to help carry me through the parts I cannot survive on my own.
I know we all suffer losses, and they are all terrible. And I suspect I should lock this post because it shows the ugliness of my aching heart, but I see no reason to be ashamed. I loved Rosie for twenty-two years and now she's gone, and it hurts so absolutely, even as I muddle along through the rest of the days of my life.